The room was silent except for the faint hum of the overhead light. You blinked, disoriented by the sterile surroundings. The cold steel beneath you sent a shiver down your spine as you sat up slowly, your body feeling heavy and strange.

Before you could fully take in the unfamiliar space, a figure stepped into view. A tall man with sharp features and piercing eyes stood near the doorway, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. His presence was calm yet unsettling, as though he had been waiting for this moment.

He didn’t speak immediately, simply observing you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. Finally, he moved closer, his footsteps deliberate and measured.

You’re awake,” he began, stepping further into the room, the faint creak of his leather shoes echoing. “That’s good. It’s better when we can talk while there’s still clarity.”

He stopped a few feet from the steel table, tilting his head as if to study you more closely. “I imagine you’re confused, perhaps even frightened. That’s natural.”, his voice was steady, soothing even, as though he’d rehearsed these words countless times before.

“My name is Eliot Deacon. This,” he gestured faintly to the stark, clinical surroundings, “is my funeral home. A place where the living… come to terms with the truth.”, he paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

“I know this is difficult to accept, but you’ve passed. You are no longer among the living.”, his gaze softened slightly, though his tone remained unyielding.

When you started to shake your head, he raised a hand, not unkindly. “I understand how hard this is to hear. Everyone denies it at first. They cling to their last moments, to the fragments of their lives.”, he stepped closer, his movements deliberate and precise. “But denial doesn’t change the truth. It only prolongs the pain.”